


Old Roots

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Internalized racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 18:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: What's past is prologue. Something's changed in the Ermendrud estate, and it scares the living hell out of Caleb.





	1. Prologue

Caleb Widogast’s first considerations of himself after he’d woken up hadn’t necessarily been with his name. He’d branded himself a different way, when he’d first felt lucidity in that wretched sanatorium. There had been—and it hurt to even remember that headspace— _nothing_ , just _nothing_ , simply a sensation of breathlessness, with a comforting hazy feeling in his gut that didn’t allow for him to dwell on any one thought for too long, and he’d had blurred together faces… and _names_. His own name. His parents’. He’d tried to remember for so _long_ , but then he’d forgotten why it had even mattered, engrossing himself in the rudimentary design patterns in the ceiling of his cell.

It had been tougher, in the start. The emptiness had scared his racing, stricken mind, but over time, he’d grown accustomed to the dullness—and then there’d been someone, there’d been that _woman_. She’d held a strange wooden symbol in her hand—he could remember how he’d immediately quirked up his lips as he’d thought about how flammable it had been, despite the blankness coating his mind like an oppressive blanket—and she’d held something else too, a little pouch, as she’d made strange somatic gestures that were clearly meant to invoke _magic_ , though not necessarily his kind. Its essence had been more divine than arcane. There’d then been sudden, maddening consciousness, and he’d tensed his shoulders, the sensations in the muted cell already too much for his hurting head.

Her eyes had snapped to his movement. She’d immediately tossed the black pouch to the floor, and had grabbed for him. her face pinched and serious. She’d had dark curly hair, with the occasional white streak interrupting the expanse of the inky black that had so wonderfully framed her pale face. She’d been wearing a blue hospital gown, and as he’d looked down, pushing away the ragged, fraying blanket that had been carelessly tossed over his body, he’d been wearing the exact same thing. He’d then felt her closeness, and had snapped up his head, trying to move away from her reaching hand, but he’d been too weak, and she’d been too insistent. He’d widened his eyes, as he’d felt her gently curl an arm around him, trying to support his frame. “Hey.” Her brusque, Common accent had interrupted the stiff silence.

He’d looked to the pouch on the floor, and then back to her, his suspicion obvious in how he’d jutted out his chin. _Who are you?_ he’d wanted to demand, but he’d felt suddenly sick, and weak, and had it been _him_ who was spinning, or had it been the entire world?

She’d sighed. “No use. The diamond dust is all used up.” And then there’d been a _look_ in her eyes, as she’d examined him head to toe, something calculating and critical and so, so _familiar_ , and he’d whitened under her gaze. He’d squared his shoulders, preparing to be difficult, and she’d just looked back to her symbol. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Lucky,” he’d repeated, and he’d widened his eyes in horror at how _rough_ his wretched voice sounded, from what he know knew had been years of disuse and his own accumulating age. _Lucky_. Even in the midst of his confusion, and steadily building panic, he’d trembled at that. They’d always said that about him, hadn’t they? He’d been born lucky, with his father’s hair and his mother’s smile, and his sharp mind, and his clever tongue, and all his fucking _magic_ —and _fuck_ , he’d felt something prickling in his eyes, and he’d shaken his head at that.

He’d looked down, and had examined his arms to distract himself, and there’d been new scars _._ Scars he hadn’t remembered getting, and Bren Aldric Ermendrud remembered _everything_. They’d been where the insertions had been made before, during the private sessions at the manor—so, he’d reasoned, they’d must’ve had to to get those expensive, glittering crystals out of him _somehow_. He’d imagined Trent Ikithon’s weary sigh, as he’d told some substandard surgeon—it had been _doubtful_ to him that the Empire’s best were stuck in this shithole, which he’d already decided that he hated in his brief moments of sanity, eyeing with distaste the dull, artificial glow of the round stones embedded onto the walls in an uninspired, patterned sequence—to salvage _something_ of this pathetic failure of a student. Just the thought of Trent’s simmering discontent had made him wince, which had made the other woman look at him with further concern. 

“You okay?” She’d played with that _symbol_ of hers, and Bren had eyed it distrustfully. It had been a diamond with two opposite-facing crescent moons imposed on it—and then he’d _remembered_. His mind hadn’t let him forget. There had been another similar one, a nicer one, plated in silver and gems, in Master Ikithon’s display of heretical insignia, in his collection room. The woman had been saying something else, her hand moving, but he’d been unable to listen, almost involuntarily, but not quite, raising his palm out, _and—_

Casting _Fire Bolt_ was as easy as breathing for Bren, or maybe easier, because though he’d felt in that moment like his lungs had been stuttering and there hadn’t been enough air in that _fucking_ cell, the warmth in his hand had felt instinctive, like coming home. _Dancing Lights_ had been the first cantrip he’d learned, and Caleb remembered even now his mother’s face when she’d come back from the market, her curly dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her simple dress old and faded, as she’d watched him release four floating globules of light from his palm. Seeing that white arcane energy reflecting in her dark eyes, and her brown skin, had been like heaven for him. The closest little Zemnian boys from the fields got to heaven, anyway. She’d squealed, and had dropped the basket she’d been carrying, racing over to embrace him. He’d turned bright red, stuttering that it was _no big deal, Mutter, honestly_. It had been easier then, despite the fact that his father had been called away and they’d been barely scraping by. The ambition hadn’t quite kicked in, yet. Neither had the pride.

That all? That had come with the flames, with _Fire Bolt_ , with him sitting by the road and trying to ignite the wood he’d been gripping with his pale hands that hadn’t been shaking nearly enough _._ The fire had ripped from his palm, and he’d dropped the wood, hissing as it had burnt his skin. _Stupid,_ his mother had sighed, even as affection had coloured her voice. _We don’t have the money to pay Brünnhilde if you are injured_. He’d nodded guiltily, but the reason he’d felt so bad had been because though his mother had looked stricken, he’d been fucking _ecstatic_.  He’d remembered how strange it had felt, to see the firebox lit. His father had beamed, and had patted his hair as he’d walked past him. He’d been close to leaving again, for the front, and Bren had already missed him terribly. They’d been so similar, in both appearance and outlook, and he had smiled, as his father had mentioned an academy, in Rexxentrum. His eyes had been _glittering_ , and he’d been looking at the fireplace, and suddenly Bren’s world had become that much bigger.

His mother had bitten her lip, but she’d smiled at him when he’d looked to her. _Funny_ , Caleb thought now, trying to remember the details of his mother’s furrowed brows that night. _Funny what sticks with you._ His mother had always been the clever one, which Bren had known, objectively, but if he’d ever truly considered her measured silences for an _instance_ —

In that wretched little cell, with two cots and stone walls that had only been interrupted by those hideous little rocks, flames had torn through his hand, to the woman who’d bothered to save him from the drifting emptiness. The unexpected pressure of the spell had pushed him back slightly, against the cool wall, as her figure had momentarily blackened against the burst of hateful orange thrusting out of his palm. The arcane words had been so familiar to his tongue that they’d sounded like a whisper against his throat, even though despite the sudden ringing in his ears he had been able to tell that he’d been reciting them in that clipped, practiced way Master Ikithon had taught him.  She’d glared at him, and had grabbed both his hands, trapping him against the wall, and he’d snarled, letting out this horrid, animalistic sound, before _—oh_.

His eyes had stung, and he’d stared at her, his face utterly aghast. _Oh._ She’d wrinkled her nose, looking at him worriedly, her hair falling to the side as she’d tilted her head at him, and he’d realized he’d gone completely limp in her grasp. _Oh god_ , he’d thought wildly. It had been snowing that night. The flames had made the white on the ground glow in a warm, almost orange, hue, and it had been so _pretty_. Astrid had laughed, and he’d grabbed her by her waist, overwhelmed in that moment by the feeling of weightlessness, and had twirled her slightly. She’d come close to him, had pulled him closer by his shirt collar, and had whispered in his ear, “Look, Schatz, you’ve lit it like a _candlestick_.”

He’d smiled at her, and had stiffened. There’d been something _off_ , something he’d felt deep in the pit of his stomach, and he’d tried to ignore it, but then Astrid had looked behind them, to the source of the sweltering heat behind his back, and he’d turned, and _then—_

Astrid had been pulling him, and then he’d suddenly felt Eodwulf’s strong arms, wrapped around his waist. They’d been trying to talk to him but he hadn’t responded, so they’d resorted to shouting at each other. _Stop_ , he’d thought, snarling and trying to escape their hold on him. _Would you just stop?_ Through the roaring flames, he’d been able to see the blackened structural beams of his house, collapsing in on itself, and he’d kept looking, and looking, and at some point they’d stopped grabbing onto him, because he’d stopped struggling. He’d sunk to his knees, holding his head in his hands as he’d felt his mind _spasm_ , and there’d been something _off_ , something _wrong_ , but he’d hadn’t had the barest clue.

The woman’s grip on his arms had loosened, as he’d begun to hyperventilate. It had felt as though his thoughts had begun to unwind, starting to reveal a horrifying picture. _He_ _hadn’t gone downstairs that night…._ “Hey,” she’d muttered, and then she’d begun to talk, and had begun to explain how they would wait for the small gap between guard shifts she’d been cataloguing over the past couple weeks, before she would call upon her deity.

He hadn’t been able to concentrate, only _barely_ been able to nod. At some point, his eyes had met hers, and there’d been this something that flitted through her face, and he’d opened his mouth, about to spit at her _not to fucking bother_ , because _he_ _hadn’t gone downstairs that night_ , when her _face_ ….

She’d tumbled backwards, letting go of him, and her eyes had glazed over, and she’d begun to mutter, “No,” again, and again, and _again_ , interspersed with the occasion _Nein_ , and _Bitte_ , which had made him raise an eyebrow in startled surprise, because she hadn’t _seemed_ Zemnian. It had been soft the first time, but then she’d raised her arms, and had taken a step back, an almost animalistic fear palpable in the tremor of her voice. She’d pressed her hands against her ears, and had begun to _scream_.

Caleb had stared at her, his face whitening with shock, and then he’d massaged where her fingers had dug into him, wincing at the momentary flash of pain. He’d then taken a hesitant, calming breath, and had reached for her, his hand trembling. “ _Hey—_ ” he’d begun urgently, furrowing his eyebrows, and then had winced as she’d begun chanting _No_ even louder in response, moving further away, stumbling to the floor and then steadying herself on all fours. _Fuck_ , he’d thought. They’d _both_ couldn’t be losing their shit.

He’d gotten up from his cot, and, keeping a careful distance from her, had looked through the small window on the door to their room. Her shouting had turned to quiet whimpering, and she’d started scratching at her _arms_ , which—Bren had just shaken his head at that, not wanting to address it quite yet. The walls were made of stone, so they hadn’t been something he could _burn_ or fuck with, and there had been a hollowness in his arms, a raw weakness, that had made him decide that trying to claw out one of the deeply embedded glowing rocks was a waste of his limited time. All he’d been able to see was another door, similar to his, across the hall, and then he’d pressed his ears against the glass.

He’d heard nothing, and just when he’d been about to relax the tension in his shoulders, his eyes widening at the sound of gentle, distant footfalls. It had seemed like just one at first, but then there’d been something else, too—a rasping heaving, and then a _snarl_ that had confirmed all but confirmed the worst of his worst fears and had made his stomach fall. Empire hound.  He’d felt panic lock in his muscles for just a second, and then he’d let go of the breath he’d been holding, sparing the woman shaking on the floor a momentary glance, before retreating to his cot, laying back down on it and pulling the threadbare blanket over his form. “Quiet,” he’d begged, but otherwise he’d closed his eyes, and had laid in a comatose position, forcing himself not to wince when he’d heard the sound of the door unlocking.

The air that had entered with the guard had been cooler, and he’d forced himself not to even slightly shift at that small relief. There had been a panting, then a growl, and his hand had almost involuntarily shaken, under the brown blanket. “Get up,” the guard had snapped, his voice cool and dismissive, annoyance dripping off his every syllable, and the woman had made a quiet, choked little sound. The guard had sighed.

Then, there’d been the slight _snap_ of his fingers, and _oh_ , he’d remembered Trent Ikithon introducing him to his personal hounds, forcing him to train with those beasts that the Archmage of Civil Influence had spent his precious years personally conditioning. In a sense, Bren had supposed he’d felt respect for these creatures, who’d survived their brutal testing, but then they’d been _tearing into his leg_ —

The woman’s sudden scream had broken through his painful memory. He’d been lucid, because she’d bothered to save him, and had stayed in his position, as he’d heard the sounds of _dragging_ , of something hitting the door, of that _fucking_ dog, and then that _lock_ , after some light rustling from the guard as he’d struggled for the right key.

He’d kept his eyes shut, and his form still, for exactly ten minutes, his ears straining for any hint that the guard would be returning. When he’d finally opened his eyes, and had hesitantly sat up, his stomach had dropped, at the sight of the blood leaking on the stone floor, splattering from a bite wound and looking almost _black_ against the dull, arcane lights. She’d disappeared, she’d been _taken_ , and, as he had leaned forward and had breathed heavily, fighting the sudden sickness in his stomach, he’d _let them do it_.

It had been when he had been alone, sitting with his legs dangling off the side of his cot, trying not to throw up, that he’d branded himself. He’d snapped his fingers, and watched the bright globules made of white, arcane light float across the room, just as twinkling and glittering as from when he’d been a child, untainted by his sins. He’d thought of his mother’s frown as his father had talked about Rexxentrum, and he’d said, out loud, misery in his voice, “Coward.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for light internalized racism in this chapter. Caleb written as a person of colour in this fic, and there is a comment he makes about himself based on how he views his training as a teenager that is racist. I'm a person of colour, and I wanted to make Caleb non-white, and explore how that works in the context of his backstory. I understand not everyone is comfortable with that, which is why I added it as a trigger warning.

_Coward_ , Caleb thought now, standing outside Jester Lavorre’s door. He looked down at his clenched hands, and gritted his teeth. The sensation of the dry, brittle sand scraping against his palm reminded him of when they'd visited that beach, on their way to Nicodranas, of the unique feeling of his toes curled against the clumpy, wet sand that the waves had lapped against. He remembered how he’d watched the sun make the surface of the ocean shimmer as the water had rolled by, how the sun’s rays had felt against his face, and his closed eyes. He remembered how his hands had been shaking as he’d stripped almost methodologically, and made his way into the cool water, allowing himself to be submerged in the cool depths. He raised his hand up, and slowly released his fist, watching some of the sand fall to the floor. His palm was _caked_ in it, and it was getting everywhere, he ought to clean this up, how could he leave such a _mess_ —

He snapped his head up at the sound of a door creaking open, but it was just another guest, who looked at him with a wrinkled nose before continuing to lumber their way to the lower level of The Dim’s Inn. He winced with every _thud_ of their feet against the floor. _God_ , why was he like this? Staring miserably at a fucking door like a—he clenched his jaw, as the vicious word clawed through his head again, the same way as when he’d first applied it to himself, waking up from that comatose state— _coward_. He closed his hand around the remaining sand, and knocked, hating the sudden dread in his stomach.

There was a moment, where he couldn’t hear _anything_ behind the door, and he wondered to himself why he’d even thought to pursue learning this spell at _all_. Sure, working with, and now sleeping beside, a half-orc who woke up choking out sea water and muttering half-heartedly about _eyes_ when Caleb pressed for explanations had rubbed off on him, and he’d begun to wonder why it was only _Uk’otoa_ who was fucking around with people’s _dreams_ …. He’d known, though, despite all his efforts to escape the rolling fields of Blumenthal, and the lights in Rexxentrum, that given such an easy path back, with such a misleading safety in the distance, Caleb wouldn’t have been able to _fucking_ resist. He knew how small the world was for archmages, but he’d known it wouldn’t’ve been enough, if he’d perfected the spell. He knocked more frantically on Jester’s door, and listened to his uneven breathing, sighing internally to himself. _Calm down_ , he thought, cooly, watching his hand tremble, and not even knowing why. _Calm down, calm down, calm down._

He finally heard footfalls, and braced himself, as Jester opened the door, only a small sliver of her freckled face visible. Her expression was twisted in annoyance, her lovely nose scrunched up. “ _Who_ —” She paused, and noticing that it was only Caleb, who’d already raised his hands, about to stutter out an apology, she opened her door up wide and beamed _._ She tilted her head at him, and smiled mischievously. “Hello, _Cayleb_.” Her dark blue hair, which Caleb realized with wide eyes was wet, fell past her shoulder. She was leaning against the door, having clearly just taken a bath, and Caleb turned a little pink as he remembered how Jester had demanded loudly to the tavern manager whether there were any _bathhouses in this place, Traveler help her._ That was all well and good, but—

He rubbed the back of his neck, flushing furiously. “Jester—”

“Ja?” she said, stepping closer, past the threshold of her doorway. There was a darkness in his eyes, which made him have all sorts of bad ideas, and he stepped back, gesturing to the rest of her body while maintaining eye contact with her steady, teasing gaze.

“You’re _only_ wearing a robe.” It was loosely done too, and it wasn’t especially long. The deep, royal purple complemented her freckled, blue skin so _fucking_ perfectly. Caleb clenched and unclenched his jaw nervously, and looked to the smug smile playing on her lovely lips.

Jester bit her lip, noticing him looking at it, the teasing light still in her eyes. “I didn’t think you were a _prude_ , Cayleb.” She pulled a loose strand of her hair that had been pressed against her forehead behind her ear, and Caleb noticed absentmindedly that she’d taken off her silver earring that connected from her ear to her horn. “Didn’t you once give me a _book_ that started like this—” 

“ _The Countess of Clovenburry_ ,” he said, immediately, and despite his anxiety, and the uncomfortable feeling of the sand pressed against his palm, he smirked at her, and she beamed again in response. “I’m glad you enjoyed the novel enough to reference it to me, blueberry.” The nickname fell casually through his lips, and he didn’t have time to be unnerved by the warmth and familiarity in the tremor of his voice, before Jester grabbed both of his closed hands. They’d been fists resting beside his still body up until this point, but she used them to pull him inside. Her smile widened as he stumbled a little as he passed through the doorway. 

He clenched his hand even tighter, as he fell onto the bed from the sheer force of the momentum as she’d moved him, trying to make sure nothing slipped past his fingers. He landed onto the rumpled bedsheets and unfolded blankets and haphazardly placed pillows on the duvet. Jester sat beside him, as he pulled himself up and sat with crossed legs. He ran his empty hand through his hair, raising an eyebrow at her, because _really, Lavorre?_ , and she fluttered her eyelashes very innocently back at him.

He then sighed, and examined the room as he tried to figure out how to tell her what he wanted. It was distractingly dark, with only the two lanterns beside the bed emanating light, casting dark shadows that stretched on and on, long and languid, and the way they played on Jester’s freckled face was the most brilliant of all. The elegant bridge of her nose, her pretty cheekbones, her exposed collarbones, just _everything_ , covered parts of her in thick darkness, which made the visible aspects of her, like her bright, violet eyes, even more astonishing. “Jester,” he said, and then he frowned at her nervous little giggle. “What?” he demanded. 

She leaned closer to him, making the dip where the two sides of her robe were tied together at the front of her chest even more revealing—lieber Gott im Himmel, she was _just wearing a robe_ —and she bit her lip. “You look real pretty right now, _Cayleb_.” Her voice was coy. Caleb realized with wide eyes that she could see him _clearly_ in the dark, and it made him blush even more. “I was just thinking that, is all.” She shrugged, the facsimile of innocence.

He cleared his throat, and met her bright gaze. Jester liked to flirt, and she liked to tease, and a part of him felt like shit for accepting it—sure, it was only a joke to her, but _Verdammt_ , he was taking pleasure in it, and that was inexcusable. He rubbed his face with one hand, trying to expel his intrusive, distracting thoughts, and raised his other hand to her. He unclenched it, showing her the clumped sand in his palm. “I have something for you.” 

She furrowed her eyebrows, and tilted her head. “ _Well_ , Cayleb,” she said, her face very serious. She reached for the sand, and he noticed her nails, usually painted a light pink, were currently bare. The nail polish had probably come off when she’d taken her bath, and he found himself missing the lovely colour that complemented her skin so wonderfully. Her firm, freckled hands looked wrong without them—his distracted mind thought they looked a little _naked_ , and he flushed. She practically _was_ naked, except for the single garment she was currently sporting, in which the sides were currently so loose around her shoulders they were threatening to slide off. It was her hand on his that snapped him out of that stream of thought, and he watched, confused, as her fingers wrapped around the sand. “I would be _honoured_ to have this.” She peered at him hopefully. “Is it like _magic_ , through? Can it make me look super _hot_?” She gasped. “Can it make people _horny_?” 

He sighed, trying not to blush further at her hand on his. He could feel himself want to say, _You already look gorgeous, Schatz_ , and he bit the inside of his cheek. _Oh_ , if only he weren’t a monster.“You sure are in a mood today.” 

She hummed. “I had a nice bath.” There was a pause, and then Jester widened her eyes, making a soft sound with her mouth. Caleb stared at her with his mouth slightly parted, blinking several times as he confirmed to himself that she’d actually just said what he thought she’d said to him. “I mean—” she said, letting go of the sand to put both of her hands up defensively. She blushed, and bit her bottom lip. “ _Geez_ , get your mind out of the _gutter_ , Cayleb.” Caleb squared his shoulders, and opened his mouth to point out the hypocrisy of that statement, and she rushed out, “I just thought you’d like to know that the _baths_ here are, like, ten out of ten.” She nodded to herself, seeming satisfied by her explanation.

Caleb _really_ didn’t know what to do with that. Then, he internally winced. That actually wasn’t even true, though, was it? There were several thoughts racing around in his wretched little head, about how he could press his lips against Jester’s sharp jawline as he pulled breathless little groans out of her, her back arching against the duvet, and how he could take his sweet time counting all the freckles on her face, and her shoulders and her sternum, and far lower. How he could suggest, while looking at her through his eyelashes, they use _Disguise Self_ and remake her favourite scenes from _The Countess of Clovenburry_ , and how he could offer to read the prose to her while she enjoyed herself. There was something in her eyes, something dark, despite her adorable, flushing embarrassment, that made him think she wouldn’t even necessarily reject him, if he asked—there really was something glowing about her, and her dancing eyes. Something that made him think that she would consider the thoughts in his head _an excellent idea, Cayleb_.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and scoffed internally to himself. Jester’s eyes tracked the light movement, but before she could comment on the sudden rigidness in how he held himself, he pulled out his spellbook. He flipped to the right page and tried to ignore the weight of her considering gaze on him. “Jester Lavorre,” he said. “I have something I'd like you to try.” 

She raised an eyebrow, and leaned on one of her arms, propping herself up on the bed. “ _Oh_?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, nervous and disgusted with himself. He was here, tying her up in all of his fucking delusions, letting himself indulge in the darkness of her eyes, instead of doing what was needed, which was tearing his new spell out of his book, and asking her to make him forget how to transcribe it. _Coward_. He couldn’t make himself cast it, and he couldn’t leave it well enough alone. “I have a spell. I'd like to try it on you, if you’d allow me.” He watched her bite the inside of her cheek, her eyes kind of lidded, and quickly added, “It does _not_ make people horny.” 

“I wasn’t _thinking_ that,” she protested, watching curiously as he set down the open spellbook and then pulled out from two different pockets in his coat, one after the other, an inkwell and a writing quill. The feather was so dark it almost appeared black, in the limited visibility of the room. Jester’s eyes glittered. “What does it do?” She poked Caleb in the shoulder, and he hide his wince at her forceful touch. She was so _fucking_ _strong_ — “ _Cayleb_ ,” she said, raising her eyebrow, interrupting the thought, and he realized he’d been staring at her. 

He looked down bashfully, biting his lower lip, to his seed of his destruction that he’d created for himself. Caleb stared at the runes and symbols on the page, where he'd taught himself how to cast _Dream_. “I can make it so you can talk to your mother, for longer than 25 words at a time.” Jester furrowed her eyebrows, and then widened her eyes, and he could see such fondness rush into the composition of her gaze, and he thought to himself furiously, _Coward, coward, coward, coward_. How dare he trick her into looking at her like that? This wasn’t—he wasn’t— _fuck_. This wasn’t him being a good person. He continued, because he couldn’t listen to his thoughts anymore, even though they continued to thrum in the back of head as he talked, “If you can ask your mother if she can spare an hour or two tonight, if she goes to bed, I can send you to her dream, and you can talk to her for _hours_.” 

“Hours?” Jester repeated, and her lips, already stretched into a smile, were twitching, like she didn’t quite know what to do with all the elation and _hope_ suddenly expanding in her chest. She sat down properly, with her legs crossed, in front of him. “I can talk to my _mom_ for _hours_?” When he nodded, she straightened her back and squealed, “ _Cayleb_!”, pushing forward and pulling him into a hug. He stiffened, and patted her back, and she giggled, moving back to her previous position, reaching for the Traveler symbol and holding it in her hands. He watched her cast _Sending_ , unable to stop himself from staring as she bit the inside of her cheek again and looked at the symbol determinedly as arcane words parted quick and familiar off her tongue. She made precise somatic gestures, divine in the same way Caduceus’ casting was divine, and in the same way that _woman’s_ had been, which, _ah_. Caleb winced at the memory, but Jester’s slightly trembling hands from her barely controlled excitement distracted him from his wracking self-loathing. “Hey, _Mom_. My friend Cayleb has a _really_ cool trick and I was _wondering_ if you were maybe free so you could _sleep_ , and we could, you know, _talk_ , if you aren’t super busy. Is _Blude_ —” Caleb raised his eyebrows at her, and she winced. “Shit.”

“You did well,” he said, anxiously playing with the quill in his hand. Nott had given him such a funny look when he’d asked her to steal a feather from a sleeping bird. _It’s for a spell_ , he’d said, and her eyes had lit up. _Reality-bending spells_? she’d said, the insinuation in her voice obvious, and he’d just smiled. _No, but it could make our world a whole lot smaller_. He’d been so foolish. He’d known he wouldn’t’ve been able to resist. He was here, and this would be enough, for today, but tomorrow…

He wouldn’t be able to _fucking_ stop himself.

Jester’s spine suddenly straightened up again, and her eyes glazed over. Caleb watched her anxiously, and felt relief as a smile overtook her face. She blinked several times, and then grabbed Caleb’s hands, and she was so _excited_. “Momma said she’s sitting on her bed _right now_ , Cayleb.”

He nodded, and exhaled, letting go of the breath he was holding. “Gut.” He looked at Jester’s hands holding his ruined ones, her blue, naked skin against his charred, blackened fingertips, and he cringed, just a little. Jester clenched her jaw, and her eyes narrowed, but before she could interrogate him, he pulled back his hands, and clasped them together, feeling nervousness momentarily overtake him…. If this didn’t work, she’d be crushed, and so would her mother. “I’m gonna hold onto your shoulder, while you and your mother talk. You’re the messenger, so you can shape and manipulate the dream. You can end it anytime.” He gave her a little smile. “Show her all the different places you went to.”

Jester’s eyes widened. “That’s a _great_ idea.” She squealed a little, and played withone end of the tie around her waist. “She doesn’t, you know, go out _much_.” She looked back up to Caleb, and her eyes were so _warm_. “It’s like… a safe way to show her _everything_.”

_That’s it_ , he thought, a little stricken. _That’s it, exactly._

She leaned closer to him. “ _Though_ …” Her eyes were light, despite the flush to her cheeks and her neck. “You don’t have to hold my _shoulder_ , Cayleb. That would be _uncomfortable_ , to do that for two hours. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Her face was positively _scheming._

“It’s worth it, though.” He shrugged, and felt small in the enormity of the delight on her face, directed at him. He cleared his throat, and looked down again, to the runes on the open pages of his spellbook. “I might be a little sore, but you’d get to talk to your mother, and that’s, uh.” He thought of his mother’s frown, as his father discussed the Soltryce Academy, how she’d hugged him when he’d created little white arcane lights that didn’t make the nights so horrifyingly isolating. “Talking to your mother is important.”

“You used to talk to _your_ mother a lot, Cayleb?” she asked, her voice a little hushed. She put her hand on top of his again, and she looked at him meaningfully. 

He stared back at her, a little startled, but— _no_ , he shouldn’t’ve been. She was entirely too clever, and she must’ve made from his stiff silence whenever _home_ and _parents_ came up that they were gone, long gone, and that Caleb had lost something important when he’d lost them, something he could never, ever replace. She looked so sad for him, and her lower lip kind of trembled, and he was astonished at her capacity for empathy. She held so much pain for so many other people, and yet she could barely talk about what was hurting _her_ , besides small little jabs when she was angry, spitting at him about how she couldn’t talk to her father now, and about stupid _fucking_ blood pacts made by stupid _fucking_ people. “Not nearly enough, Jester.” She looked a little crestfallen, and opened her mouth, but he said, desperately, “Your mother is waiting.” He looked to her robe, and said, wryly, “You don’t have to worry about how you’ll look to her. You can change your appearance and dress in the dream environment.”

Jester scoffed. “I’m not _embarrassed,_ Cayleb.” Her eyes were dancing, betraying her amusement. She gave him a little once-over, her face smug as she watched him flush even more. “I don’t mind if _you_ look, either.”

Caleb would’ve wrung his hands, if they’d been free. _Scheisse._ She _had_ to know what she was doing to him. She had to be aware just how _much_ of her thighs were visible from the way in which she’d crossed her legs. She was fucking with him, pushing him, and it was a little addicting. He thought this might’ve felt like heaven, and just a little bit like hell, or maybe both, all at once, but regardless, even this hell was more than he deserved.

Jester slumped her shoulders a little, as if she could see his mood turning, and she worried her bottom lip. He was startled by how much he wanted to bring his hand to her beautiful freckled face, and smooth out the wrinkles with his thumb. “I was gonna _say_ , Cayleb.” She looked to her hand still messing with her tie. “I’m glad you would be okay getting _sore_ for me.” She smirked a little at that, even though she was curled into herself more than she had been just a moment ago. _Look what you’ve done, you selfish bastard_ , he thought to himself, absentmindedly. “But you don’t have to.” She looked up, and there was so much painful hope in her wide eyes, and her slightly parted lips—it reminded him of their talk in Darktow, and it kind of killed him. “You can just hold my _hand_.”

_Oh, Jester._ “You really want me to,” he said, a little sadly. He’d meant it as a gentle question, but he couldn’t even seem to get that right. He infested every conscious moment with his bullshit, and he couldn’t _do this right now, this wasn’t about him, it_ couldn’t _be about him, because if it became about him, he’d so something irreparably_ stupid. He grabbed her hand, and let himself indulge in the high he felt when she beamed at him, and began to cast _Dream_.

Caleb stumbled a little through the arcane words, it being the first time he’d formally tried to cast it, and let out a ragged breath, thinking about what Trent Ikithon would’ve made of him now, just a _mess_ of sentimentality, hiding in Jester’s room, trying to burn his magic so something bad wouldn’t happen, stuttering through simple arcane phrases. _Don’t waste my time, Ermendrud_. He tensed his shoulders, and continued from where he’d left off, and his pronunciation was clipped, and fucking _perfect_. Jester looked to him, a little alarmed by the sudden coolness in his face, but he made the necessary somatic gestures with the quill, after dipping it in the ink. Caleb watched as the runes he spelled out in the air in front of him floated and shimmered a brilliant arcane blue for a breathtaking second, before fading away. He then set the quill down, grabbing for the sand he’d momentarily left on his lap, and looked to Jester, who was—

Jester Lavorre was _crying_. Her eyes were closed, and though she didn’t say anything, her mouth occasionally twitched, and her irises were moving underneath her eyelids. She was trembling, and her shoulders had eased from a tension he hadn’t even realized she was still holding onto, and she looked so happy, and she looked so at home, and she looked so _divine._

So it had worked. So it _would_ work. In the abstract, Caleb had known that—he’d studied these runes for so long, and this idea had festered in his head ever since Fjord had first come clean about his wet dreams. It had worked, and now Jester got to see her mother. He’d wanted to pursue this spell because it had been powerful, and he knew from watching his now roommate hesitate before laying in his bed every night that it was an effective tool in psychological warfare. Trent Ikithon probably loved it, as much as that man loved anything. But then they’d left Nicodranas, and they’d come to Xhorhas, and there had been something… quieter about Jester. Something empty. Perhaps the entirety of this spell’s conception hadn’t been selfish, or an extension of his own shitty nature.

But he could feel something shifting in him, like a creature under his skin, and he sighed. Seeing what had happened to Felderwin, and seeing Nott reunited with Yeza, had awakened something, loathe as he was to admit it. A curiosity. A longing. Caleb knew what he was. He knew what he’d done. Bren Aldric Ermendrud was a creature of instinct, despite all the attempts to civilize him, and Caleb Widogast was not that different.

Jester let out a little giggle, and his eyes snapped to her face. The wetness of her hair made it seem darker than it normally was, and the contrast to her pale blue face where her hair framed it was even more brilliant. Her freckles, though especially prominent on the bridge of her nose, danced on her cheeks, and down her neck, and it reminded Caleb of the stars when they were on the road, when everything was silent, far from the pollution and the rush of the city. She was smiling, but it wasn’t directed at him, and so he didn’t feel a rush of guilt at the thought of deceiving her into thinking he was a person worth directing any of her light at. He let his gaze linger a moment longer, because he was a fucking bastard, and then looked away, and began going through each of his coat pockets, documenting in his head where all his components were.

He already knew, but. He thought if he counted the seconds it might kill him.

 

Jester Lavorre talked to her mother for three hours.

In that time, Caleb had done everything not to look at her, because her joy wasn’t for him. He’d counted out and reordered his components three times, making slight modifications to his internal sense of order as needed. When that had been done, he’d anxiously twisted around the wire for his _Message_ spell, into fucked up little shapes that made him smile despite himself. He’d been in the middle of making an octopus Frumpkin, when Jester suddenly grabbed him, and pulled him into a hug. He froze, the shock at the sudden sensation overwhelming him, before he hesitantly patted her back.

“ _Cayleb_ ,” she said, and there was something a little wet in her voice. Her strong arms around his thin frame made him feel… protected? A part of him wanted to say _claimed_ , but _no_ , he was not going to do this to her. He was not going to take her friendly flirting as anything else, anything his sick mind hoped for. He was not going to involve her in his bullshit more than he’d already done so. “That was _amazing_.” Her body, only covered by her thin robe, was against his, and it was hell, and it was heaven. Jester pulled away, her arms still around him and her face still close, and said, “That was a really nice thing you did.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “And you say you’re not a very good person.” Her voice was light, but there was something else in there, something searching, and he _really_ didn’t want to disappoint her. Not today.

He shrugged, and looked down. “You give me far too much credit, Jester, but… it’s appreciated.” He sounded so flat, like this was some transaction, which kind of horrified him.

Jester glared at him a little, a tense worried look on her face which made him want to say something unwise, say something to validate her closeness to him. She leaned back slightly, finally letting go of his waist, and sat down with crossed legs, clasping her hands in front of her. “I don’t give you too much _credit_ ,” she said, indignant. “No one gives the right amount of credit like _Jester_.” His lips kind of quirked up at that. Her face shifted again, and her eyes slightly unfocused, like she was recalling something. She suddenly beamed. “Cayleb, it was so _perfect_. Momma and I talked about all the new _dresses_ in Nicodranas, and what’s happening in _Xhorhas_ , and did you know there was a _festival_ happening in, like, a month?” She giggled. “I don’t really know what it’s about, but if we could, you know, teleport there…” She gave him a pointed look.

He nodded, and thought of Yussah Erranis, and winkled his nose just a little. “We could do that. There’s a teleportation circle in Nicodranas.”

She ran a hand through her hair, nodding to herself. “ _Right_. He had a goblin friend, you know?” She scratched at her neck, her eyebrows furrowing adorably as she thought. “I think his name was _Wentworth_.” Caleb nodded a little listlessly as he played with the sand in his hand, and Jester paused in her stream of thought, looking at him curiously. “Cayleb?”

He straightened his back, at her suddenly inquisitive tone. “I don’t—” He paused, and then begin to shove his components into his pockets. “Thank you for helping me test the spell, Jester,” he said, stiffly, not even knowing how to ask her not to look at her like that, like he’d done something precious. _This isn’t me being kind, Lavorre_ , Caleb thought a little desperately, picking up his spellbook and putting it into his holster. _I’ve been kind, before, but this isn’t that._

“Ja?” Jester said, quietly, forcing his attention back on her.

He rubbed at his face. “Jester”—he noticed how her shoulders shifted as he said her name, and _oh_ , that was dangerous, the fluttering in his chest was _dangerous_ —“you remember when you said good people do bad things?”

She nodded, and rubbed one arm with her hand absentmindedly.

He continued, his stomach sinking, “And bad people do good things?” Fuck, it felt hard to breathe. He closed his eyes momentarily, to try to calm himself, only opening them at hearing Jester’s small intake of breath.

Her eyes were widened, having now realized where he was going with this conversation. She leaned forward, her hand outstretched like she was going to grab his shoulder, but she stilled as he almost imperceptibly flinched at her sudden movement. “ _Cayleb—”_ she began, but he just shook his head at her, hating how jerky his actions felt.

He got up, and ignoring her gaze on him, made his way to the door, hesitating for only a second before passing through the doorway. The sound of the door creaking closed behind him felt like a bullet passing through Nott’s gun, and it was just horrible, to think of Jester, sitting there alone, in the dark, biting her lip, thinking his sudden change in mood was at all even tangentially her fault _—_

He almost found himself lost in the furious pace of his thoughts, if it weren’t for the sand, still in his hand. The rough, brittle material grounded him, and he squeezed his clenched hand against it, and thought of Nicodranas, and the sun, and let out a choked, desperate little laugh, in the hallway. It was a horrible, rough sound, and though he hoped Jester hadn’t heard it, he knew better than to doubt her keen ears.

Caleb made his way to his room, and saw that Fjord was already laying in the bed, asleep, when he’d arrived. His hair was getting longer, and it was strewn across the pillow, and he thought of how Jester might’ve admired him, if she had been here. How she would’ve flushed at his slightly parted lips and his relaxed, almost innocent face. This was someone she wanted. This was someone who could deserve a place in her light. He looked to the sleeping half-orc for half of a second longer, who looked so much _younger_ when his face wasn’t twisted in some careful, calculated way, and then promptly looked away. This wasn’t meant for him either.

Sighing to himself, he placed the sand in a coat pocket, with the other components for his new spell, and then shrugged off the coat, leaving it hanging on the chair adjacent to the desk in the room. He undid his boots, leaving them carelessly on the floor, and finally laid in the bed, next to Fjord.

_Scheisse_ , he thought, miserably, and closed his eyes, preparing for a long, dreamless sleep.


End file.
